“Rome is the more mad of the two,” said Luca di Savelli; “but methinks, in his wildness, the Tribune hath committed one error of which we may well avail ourselves at Avignon.”
“Ah,” cried the old Colonna, “that must be our game; passive here, let us fight at Avignon.”
“In a word then, he hath ordered that his bath shall be prepared in the holy porphyry vase in which once bathed the Emperor Constantine.”
“Profanation! profanation!” cried Stephen. “This is enough to excuse a bull of excommunication. The Pope shall hear of it. I will despatch a courier forthwith.”
“Better wait and see the ceremony,” said the Savelli; “some greater folly will close the pomp, be assured.”
“Hark ye, my masters,” said the grim Lord of the Orsini; “ye are for delay and caution; I for promptness and daring; my kinsman’s blood calls aloud, and brooks no parley.”
“And what do?” said the soft-voiced Savelli; “fight without soldiers, against twenty thousand infuriated Romans? not I.”
Orsini sunk his voice into a meaning whisper. “In Venice,” said he, “this upstart might be mastered without an army. Think you in Rome no man wears a stiletto?”
“Hush,” said Stephen, who was of far nobler and better nature than his compeers, and who, justifying to himself all other resistance to the Tribune, felt his conscience rise against assassination; “this must not be—your zeal transports you.”
“Besides, whom can we employ? scarce a German left in the city; and to whisper this to a Roman were to exchange places with poor Martino—Heaven take him, for he’s nearer heaven than ever he was before,” said the Savelli.